The Gamble
by Polariswarrior
Summary: Harry had gone through his life with only one goal in mind: kill the man who murdered his parents. But Voldemort was elusive, and Harry didn't know how to go about finding the man - let alone killing him. Enter Phil Coulson and Clint Barton, two agents who are tasked to investigate Voldemort and his Death Eaters for SHIELD. Things get interesting when the three decide to team-up.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor do I own Marvel - any recognizable characters are not mine.

* * *

There was a constant ticking of a clock that permeated the room. The office was stuffy, the air smelled of stale cologne, and the computer monitor and typewriter on the Headmaster's desk was still some of the clunkiest things Harry had ever seen.

"Mr. Potter, I am disappointed," Headmaster Grayson said with a sigh. Harry didn't see his face, too busy keeping his head tilt back as he stared at the ceiling, but he could imagine the look of utter disappointment on the Headmaster's face.

"We are in the fourth week of the semester and yet this is the third time you have been sent to my office because of your behavior," Grayson continued, his voice oozing with disapproval.

Harry contained a grimace; he was averaging six school days between visits to the Headmaster's office – it was not a statistic he particularly enjoyed knowing.

"Now, I already heard what Mr. Hooper and the others had to say; I want to hear your side of the story," he continued, and Harry could feel him staring right at his face.

Harry knew he must have looked terrible: a swelling black eye, a bloody nose that was just now starting to clot, a bit cheek that had gushed enough blood to make Harry think he had lost a tooth though not enough to require stitches, and more bruises on his body and face from kicks and punches than he had gotten when he had wiped out on his godfather's motorcycle.

But at least Harry had the sick satisfaction of knowing that he gave as good as he got.

"Hooper insulted my family," Harry replied, shrugging his shoulders as he looked away from the ceiling and at the Headmaster.

Harry could feel the blood clot in his nose, and he crinkled his nose a few times to try to get rid of the sensation of knowing the clot was there.

"So that gave you the right to punch Mr. Hooper in the face?" Headmaster Grayson asked, his voice stern yet calm.

"It does when he brings five blokes as back up," Harry replied, running a hand through his messy black hair.

It had been morning passing period, and Harry had been getting some books from his locker when Hooper and his five friends had surrounded Harry; words had been exchanged, Hooper had insulted Harry's mother, Harry had punched Hooper right in the jaw.

Everything else had escalated from there.

It had taken the teachers five minutes to notice that there was a fight going on in the halls, and by the time they stopped the altercation Harry had already been pummeled into a pulp, the other boys sporting bloody noses and bruised faces.

Harry hadn't beaten the other boys so badly that they all looked worse than he did. Harry did, however, deal out more damage than any of the other boys had – after all, it took six of Harry's peers to make him as injured as he was, and it only took Harry to physically injure each of the six in retaliation.

Percentage-wise, Harry had won the fight.

"So just because someone insults your family you decide to start a fight? Why not just ignore them? It seems obvious to me that they just wanted to get a rise out of you," the Headmaster said, his tone earnest, as if he was willing Harry to understand where he went wrong.

Harry ignored the Headmaster's questions – they were idiotic and did not deserve an answer.

Grayson sighed at Harry's lack of response; it ushered in a moment of silence, interrupted only by the ticking clock.

"Is everything okay in your life? At your home?" he asked looking pointedly at Harry.

Harry didn't answer, but he did run his hand through his hair once more.

His home life had nothing to do with the fight. Sure his godfather, Sirius Black, was drinking again and hadn't stopped smoking like a chimney despite Harry trying to get him to stop. And sure, his Uncle Peter was still coming around to his house despite the fact that Sirius had explicitly said he never wanted to see 'that fucking rat' ever again – and yeah, Harry let Peter in when Sirius wasn't home, but that was mainly because Peter couldn't shut up about his gambling addiction, and Harry needed Peter to talk about his vice for reasons Harry was keeping strictly to himself.

So no, nothing was okay with his home life, but that doesn't mean it was the reason for the fight.

Headmaster Grayson frowned at Harry's silence; he sat back in his chair and sighed.

"Mr. Potter, we cannot tolerate your behavior at this school," he started to lecture. Harry rolled his eyes.

"As such –"

A knock on the door interrupted Grayson's chastisement. Frowning out of confusion, Grayson turned his attention to the door.

"Come in," he called out, watching as Ms. Atwood, one of the office assistants, poked her head into the room.

"Sorry Headmaster," she said, not sorry at all, "but we have a couple Americans here who are asking to talk to you. They say they're conducting an investigation but I can't get anything else out of them."

Grayson looked taken aback by the news; Harry, on the other hand, perked up.

"Have you asked them to come back later?" Grayson asked, perplexed by the turn of events.

"I have, but they're being persistent," Ms. Atwood replied, unamused.

The Headmaster pursed his lips as he came to a decision.

"Tell them I'll be with them shortly, I just need to finish my conversation with Mr. Potter here," he said, pointing his hand towards Harry as if to illustrate his plan.

Ms. Atwood nodded in understanding and left, shutting the door behind her.

"Now, where were we?" Headmaster Grayson asked, looking flustered.

"You were saying that my behavior can't be tolerated at this school," Harry replied, no longer interested in the conversation.

He wanted to know what a couple of Americans were doing at his school.

"Right, yes, of course," Grayson recalled. "Mr. Potter, if your record was cleaner then I would have just given you detention for a month and been done with it. However, your record is _not_ clean. Even without the three office visits this semester alone, you still have the countless other times I have had the pleasure of lecturing you during your tenure here, or the innumerable detentions you have served.

"It has become apparent to me that if detentions and lectures are not getting through to you then maybe suspension will," he finished, staring sternly at Harry.

Harry didn't react. He had had an inkling that he would be suspended for the fight – hell, maybe even expelled – but he hadn't cared.

He hated school with a passion; being suspended would almost be like a vacation.

"You'll be suspended for a week; when you get back you will have a guardian-student-teacher conference with each of your teachers along with me so we can all discuss your behavior. After that, you'll be in detention for the rest of the semester. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Harry replied, his irritation coming through in his voice.

He was not looking forward to any of that – except maybe the suspension.

"We'll call your guardian and tell him what has happened. In the mean time, you sit in the office – no going back to class, no talking to any of the other students – and you wait until you are picked up by your guardian," Grayson ordered.

"Sir, my godfather didn't drop me off this morning – I rode my moped to school," Harry said, praying that he could just go home without having to wait for his godfather to pick him up.

"Then you will wait in the office until your godfather comes to sign you out – how you get home from there is up to you and your guardian to decide," Grayson countered, glaring at Harry.

He wanted to argue, he wanted to say that Sirius wouldn't pick him up while he was at work, but he held his tongue.

Arguing now would be pointless.

"Dismissed."

Harry sighed as he got up to leave – whether it was from the pain or Grayson's attitude, Harry wasn't entirely sure.

He left the Headmaster's office and entered the main office, making his way over to where his backpack was located on one of the vacated seats in the waiting area.

As he made his way over to his spot, he spotted the Americans.

One of them, a man in his mid-thirties, was standing next to the front desk. The man wore a dark brown suit and tie, and he looked like he was meant to be working in an office somewhere. He had brown hair, a high hair-line, large forehead, and had sunglasses hanging out from his suit pocket.

The other one was a man in his mid-twenties who was sitting down in the seat next to Harry's backpack. He, unlike his partner, was wearing his sunglasses as he lounged comfortably in his seat. He had dark blond hair – almost reddish in the light – and wore a shirt that showed off his well-toned arms.

Harry stared between the two men as he walked to his seat. For some reason Harry felt like he had just stepped into one of those cheesy Hollywood 'buddy-cop' films where the more experienced cop was paired with the younger one who hated to follow the rules.

Harry tossed his backpack to the ground before he collapsed onto his chair with a thump. He reclined as best as he could in the uncomfortable seat, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling once more.

He felt the two Americans give him cursory glances before they went back to whatever it was they were doing before he had shown up.

Standing around doing nothing, mainly.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting," Grayson announced as he came out of his office a minute later.

"No need to apologize Mr. Grayson, we didn't wait for long. Besides, you seemed to be busy," the man in the suit replied; he glanced at Harry, taking in the state of his face, before looking back at the headmaster.

"Simple disciplinary action, nothing more," Grayson replied lightly. He blanched, though, under the look the man in the suit gave him.

"Mr. Potter had gotten into a fight with a few of his classmates – we don't beat our students here," Grayson explained, his voice borderline hysterical as he did so.

The man besides Harry snorted in amusement.

"Of course you don't beat students; that's not we're here for," Suits replied, mildly amused.

"Oh, right," Grayson said, embarrassed.

"Mr. Grayson, I am Agent Phil Coulson, of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division – my partner and I wish to ask you a few questions regarding your teaching staff," Agent Coulson said, flashing his ID badge as he talked.

Grayson looked at it, confused over what the agency was.

"I've never heard of the –" Grayson started, his eyebrows narrowing as he tried to read the agency's name from the ID badge.

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division," Agent Coulson replied, putting away his badge. "Don't worry, we get that a lot. Just think of us as a branch of the CIA."

"Oh, alright," Grayson responded, surprised.

"Can we actually talk in your office? It will be easier to talk in there," Agent Coulson said.

Harry looked around the nearly deserted office; besides the two administrators sitting around doing paper work and listening to the radio, there wasn't anything that could make talking all that difficult.

"Of course," Grayson replied anyway, holding out his arm to signal that Agent Coulson should go first.

Agent Coulson looked over at his partner, and Harry could have sworn that the two had a silent conversation based solely on the faces Coulson was pulling and the subtle head nods that the man next to him was making.

They must have agreed on something because Agent Coulson went into the Headmaster's office, leaving his partner alone with Harry.

Harry didn't know whether to be intrigued or annoyed.

A few moments passed in relative silence: Harry and the man sat next to each other as the administrators worked, the radio blaring an ad for all to hear.

Suddenly, a Spice Girls song started to play on the radio, and the two faculty members became excited once the first verse came on. The man next to Harry seemed to be less than impressed with the song choice, judging by the long breath he let out from between his lips.

"So, you had a fight?" the man asked, looking at Harry, who in turned looked at the man.

"That explains your face," the man continued, the chorus of the up-beat pop song playing in the background.

Harry knew his face didn't look great – his left eye was swollen to the point that he could barely see out of it, he felt sore all over, and he could feel the dried blood on his face that had outlined the flow of his bloody nose earlier that day.

Harry didn't reply. He wasn't sure what the man was trying to do but so far he was failing at it.

"How did the other guy turn out?" he asked, still trying to make conversation with Harry.

"They were fine – they're back in class by now, no doubt," Harry replied, anger in his voice.

He decided to humor the man: at best he'd be entertained, at worst, he'd be further annoyed. Either way it would pass the time.

"They? How many did you beat up?" he asked. The man sounded interested, and Harry was surprised that the man asked how many he had beaten up, rather than the other way around.

"Six," Harry replied, a hint of pride in his voice.

"Six?" the man asked, amazed. "That certainly explains your face."

Harry snorted in response.

The man didn't ask any further questions after that, which caused Harry to become very bored rather quickly.

A few moments passed, the two men just sitting there in silence, when Harry finally broke.

"What are you lot doing here?" Harry asked, turning to look at the man.

He glanced at Harry briefly, his eyebrows quirked in question.

"You know, you lot – the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division – what are you lot doing at my school?" Harry asked when the man wouldn't answer.

Harry knew of the agency through his extra-curricular research into World War II: it had replaced the Strategic Scientific Reserve after World War II had ended – the SSR being the agency that helped create Captain America.

"We're here investigating something top secret," the man said, his voice a weird mixture of serious and sarcasm.

"Well, obviously," Harry replied, rolling his eyes as he did. "But what are you investigating?"

The man gave Harry a look.

"What part of top secret do you not understand, kid?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, I know that it has to do with one of the teachers here. Your partner said as much when talking to Grayson," Harry explained, nodding his head towards the Headmaster's office.

The man stared at Harry, his face blank of all emotion. Harry felt himself frown – if only the man wasn't wearing sunglasses, then maybe he'd know what he was thinking.

"Have you ever had a class with a Mr. Quirinus Quirrell?" the man asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Yeah, a few times. Quirrell teaches English, and he has a really nasty stutter – learning poetry with him was a nightmare," Harry answered, recalling the weeks of lessons when Quirrell tried to read poetry out loud to the class – absolute torture.

"Anything off about him?" the man asked, taking an interest in Harry's answers.

"Eh, there're rumors that go around – kids say he's a pedophile, though that's only because he sucks at teaching and they're trying to get him fired. There's nothing that backs up the rumors that he's a pedophile yet everyone still says he is," Harry explained, his voice conveying his annoyance at his peer's stupidity.

"Is that all?" the man asked disappointed.

"That depends – why do you want to know?" Harry replied, staring inquisitively at the man.

"You know, if you know something about Mr. Quirrell you should tell me now, otherwise you'll be obstructing our investigation," the man stated. Harry wasn't sure if he was being serious or not, though that might have been because the man seemed new to his job.

"Well, how do I know that the information I have is relevant to your case if I don't know what you're investigating? Furthermore, maybe the information I have would obstruct your investigation by being unnecessary," Harry commented, watching the man closely for any sign of reaction.

Judging by the slight twitch to the man's lips, he at least found Harry's response amusing.

"At this point, anything will help," the man said, trying to prompt Harry into revealing what he knew.

Harry ran his hand through his hair before sitting up straight in his chair.

"Quirrell is an avid gambler," Harry told the man, keeping his voice low enough so that the two workers couldn't hear him over the radio.

"Just a few weeks ago, he lost over twenty thousand pounds on a single game – word is that since then he's had to do a few unsavory favors for the person who loaned him the money to pay off his loss," Harry explained.

The man's eyebrows narrowed at Harry's information, his lips pursed in thought.

"How do you know this?" the man asked.

"I have an uncle who gambles with Quirrell sometimes – he's told me all about it," Harry explained, silently thanking his Uncle Peter for being terrible at keeping secrets.

The man nodded his head in understanding.

"Do you know who loaned Quirrell the money?" he asked.

"I don't know who the exact person was, but I do know the group he went to for help," Harry replied.

The man sat back in his chair; he stared at the opposite wall – or at least, that's what Harry assumed he was doing.

He could be going to sleep for all Harry knew – bloody sunglasses.

"Did he go to the Death Eaters for help?" the man asked, his voice so quiet that Harry had to strain to hear the question.

He nodded his head in response to the man's inquiry.

The Death Eaters were a hate group akin to the Ku Klux Klan – the members were bigots, racists, sexists, nationalists, and highly political and influential. They hated immigrants, homosexuals, minorities, and felt like the best time in England's long history was during the period of colonialism.

The people within the group would normally be written off as die-hard conservatives, yet they were considered a domestic terrorist group due in part to their leader, Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort felt like the only way to get his point across was through killing innocent people – over a hundred deaths were attributed to Voldemort _alone_, the number increasing once his Death Eaters' killings were included in the total.

Among Voldemort's victims were Harry's parents, James and Lily Potter.

Harry himself had almost been a victim.

Almost.

"My uncle didn't tell me much outside of the fact that he had seen Quirrell talk to Barty Crouch Jr. after he lost the twenty grand," Harry explained further.

Barty Crouch Jr. was a known Death Eater for those who knew what to look for – no Death Eater had ever confirmed their true identity, but Harry was confident that he knew of at least a few of them by name.

In the case of Barty Crouch Jr., Crouch's father, Barty the Senior, had a very well respected position in the Home Office – Harry had read up on several cases where Crouch Jr. had been arrested for hate crimes only to be pardoned not even a day later.

Harry didn't believe that Crouch Sr. was a Death Eater, but he did think that the nepotism had to stop.

"So how do you know that this Barty Crouch Jr. is connected with the Death Eaters?" the man asked, looking back over to Harry.

"Because Crouch is a Death Eater," Harry answered simply.

The man looked at Harry with his eyebrows quirked in question. Harry rolled his eyes.

"He's gone on record that he thinks immigrants shouldn't be allowed into the country; he's makes blatantly sexist and racist remarks practically every time he opens his mouth; and he's been arrested in 1981, 1989, and 1993 on three separate counts of battery and assault to several different families – all of whom were minorities or immigrants. The three times he had been arrested he was quickly pardoned of his crimes and these cases are the only on-record accounts we have of his actions – he's done a lot more than what's on his record. Based on that I'd have to say the bloke is a Death Eater – he's definitely following their MO."

The man was full-on smiling by the end of Harry's explanation, which scared Harry more than he wanted to admit.

"Where did you get your information?" he asked, more because he was impressed than because he was interrogating Harry.

"My godfather works for Scotland Yard and I may go through his old case files when I'm bored," Harry answered, shrugging his shoulders as if to say what he'd done wasn't the kind of problem that could potentially get his godfather fired from his job.

If anything, Harry's answer made the man's smile grow even more. Now, instead of it being creepy it was down-right diabolical.

Silence fell between them for a few moments, a radio ad playing as the two workers continued to fill-out their paperwork, completely unaware of the conversation Harry and the man had just had.

"The name's Clint, by the way – Agent Clint Barton," the man said, holding out his hand for Harry to shake.

Harry took the man's hand and they shook hands briefly.

"I'm Harry – Harry Potter," he replied as they shook.

"Nice to make your acquaintance, Harry Potter," Barton said, still grinning like he had finally won a game only he knew the rules to.

Harry wanted to respond, but before he could Headmaster Grayson and Agent Coulson exited from the Headmaster's office.

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Grayson," Harry heard Agent Coulson say as he made his way over to his partner.

Barton, watching as his colleague makes his way over to him, launched himself out of his chair and waited for Coulson to finish his pleasantries.

"If you have any information you would like to tell us, you can reach us at this number," Coulson continued, handing Grayson a business card.

The Headmaster took the card, trying to stammer out his assurance that he would do just that but failing spectacularly at it. Coulson gave the man a tight smile before walking passed Barton and out the door.

As Coulson passed Barton, Harry watched as Barton subtly took another business card from his fellow agent, which he then handed to Harry.

"See you around, Harry," Barton said, looking at Harry over the top of his sunglasses.

Barton had piercing, bluish-grey eyes; he gave Harry a smile and a wink before he went to follow Coulson out of the office.

Harry looked down at the card and saw that it was a generic enough business card: it was Phil Coulson's card, had the agency's full name along the top – a most impressive feat considering the length of the name – and had listed his contact information, both by phone and by fax.

He stared at the card for a few more seconds, long enough that when he looked up Headmaster Grayson was no longer present. Harry put the card away in his backpack, his mind trying to process what he had just gone through.

Harry didn't know if something wonderful or terrible had just happened – all he knew was that his momentary excitement was now replaced with a hell-like boredom.

He reclined in his seat, tilted his head back so he could stare at the ceiling once more, and let out a deep sigh.

It wasn't even lunch yet.

Today was going to be a long day.

* * *

Author's Note:

This story came to me out of a random place and I decided to write it because I haven't seen a similar story on the site as of yet (I might just not be looking hard enough). As it is, I already have this story mapped out: it is going to be 12 chapters long plus an epilogue, so 13 posts in total. I won't be updating as regularly as I am my other story, however I don't plan on letting this sit for months at a time.

In regard to timeline: Harry is still born on July 31, 1980 and this story takes place in late 1997, so Harry is 17. This story will not include the other Avengers, since it is way before their time, however it will include SHIELD.

Hope everyone has a happy Saturday!


	2. Chapter 2

The ride home was painful.

Harry gritted his teeth as he drove his moped through school traffic, maneuvering around cars and inattentive students at a cautious speed. Normally Harry loved driving fast – loved the wind on his face, the hum of the engine, and the feeling of freedom he had whenever he started up the motor – but today he was driving slowly.

With a partially swollen eye and a body made up of bruises, Harry had to weigh the pros and cons for driving his moped home. If he drove his normal speeds he'd be back home in roughly ten minutes, meaning he wouldn't have to deal with the vibrations from the engine rattling his injured body for too long; however, with his left eye almost completely shut and his glasses bent from the fight, Harry couldn't really see very well, meaning that his reaction time was fucked.

So he chose to drive slowly, knowing that it would be a painful ride, but overall a much safer one.

Twenty minutes later, Harry came to a stop in his usual spot outside his home. Number 12, Grimmauld Place was Sirius's old childhood home, and he absolutely hated it. It was spacious for a townhouse and quite old as well, and as a child it was Sirius's own personal hell. The house had been musty, dark, and foreboding – just like Sirius's abusive parents. When Sirius had acquired the deed to the house upon his mother's death he had planned to burn the house down purely out of spite. However, when Harry came into his care, Sirius realized that he needed more room to raise Harry than what his one-bedroom apartment could offer.

As a result, Sirius and Harry had moved into Number 12, followed closely by Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew, whom had both agreed to help take care of Harry upon Sirius's request. The four had renovated and redecorated the home to make Sirius feel better, and for a long time the home was bright, youthful, and in high spirits.

But now, as Harry opened the door, he was greeted to a dusty silence and a dark hallway.

Harry trudged into the house, down the hallway filled with family photos that hadn't been updated for years, and up the stairs to get to his room.

He opened his door and threw his backpack onto his bed as he entered. His room was big enough for two people, though he never had the need to invite another person to stay over in his room with him. The walls were covered with poorly draw murals, the product of his ten year old self and his Uncle Remus one summer's afternoon. Harry was the one to draw the murals – of horses and dogs and cats and dragons and houses and mountains and football games and stick figures – while Remus helped him paint the upper walls and ceiling to resemble the sky transitioning from day into night.

Remus's contribution to his room was the main reason why Harry hadn't repainted his it in the past seven years, despite the cringe-worthy murals.

Harry grabbed a change of clothes and then made his way to the bathroom for a shower. He undressed as the water turned hot, and then stepped into the shower with clenched teeth.

The spray of the water hitting Harry was a constant reminder of his bruised body, and his shower ended up being quick rather than soothing like Harry had wanted it to be.

Turning off the water, Harry wrapped a towel around himself and stepped out onto the bathmat so he could observe himself in the mirror.

He was a dark-blue blob without his glasses on, and leaning towards the mirror Harry was greeted to the sight of his left eye – completely black but not totally swollen.

Earlier, as he had been waiting in the office, one of the workers had given him an icepack for his eye and an ibuprofen for the swelling and pain. That had been a couple hours ago and he was due for another round of icepacks and pain killers.

Harry dressed delicately before heading down to the kitchen, his wet hair dripping water onto the collar of his clean shirt. They were out of pain killers, and they didn't have a proper icepack, so Harry had to resort to using a bag of frozen peas. Harry plopped down into one of the chairs in the kitchen, the bag of peas wrapped in a cloth towel and placed unceremoniously over his eye.

Harry reclined in the seat, the same position he had been in earlier that day in the office, and stared at the ceiling. He was drifting off to sleep, his body relaxing as the cold seeped into his eye from the peas.

And then the doorbell rang.

Growling, Harry slammed the peas down onto the table and got up from his seat. He knew that he could have let the bell continue to ring, could have let the person ringing the bell wait until they realized there was no one home, but Harry knew the person who was ringing the bell.

Stomping to the front door, Harry adjusted his bent glasses on his nose once more before opening it.

He was greeted to the site of his Uncle Peter, his eyes wide in surprise and his hand out to knock on the door. Peter Pettigrew was a man in his late thirties with thinning brown hair, a growing bald patch, a pointed nose, and watery blue eyes. Harry noticed that he appeared thinner than the last time he saw him, no doubt due to stress.

"Hey Uncle Pete," Harry greeted, looking down at his uncle's face.

Harry had outgrown Peter in height while in his early teens, a fact Sirius had found hilarious at the time.

Peter's eyes widened further as he took in Harry's face.

"Harry! What happened to you?" he exclaimed squeakily, his face a mixture of horror and worry.

Harry gave him a reassuring, self-deprecating smile.

"I got into a fight," he replied simply, running a hand through his hair as he shrugged his shoulders.

Harry noticed by Peter's fidgeting hands that he was struggling internally, unsure if he should reach out to inspect Harry's face or if he should keep to himself.

In the end, he ended up frowning worriedly at Harry with his hands in his pockets; Harry tried not to feel too hurt about it.

"You should really put some ice on that eye of yours," Peter replied awkwardly, pointing towards Harry's black eye.

"I was doing that when you rang," Harry said, nodding his head.

"Oh."

Harry looked at his uncle before rolling his eyes and stepping to the side, inviting him in. Peter glanced at him hesitantly before entering the house.

Just like always.

"Will Sirius be home soon?" he asked as the two made their way to the kitchen.

"His entire department is trying to capture a rather elusive serial killer," Harry answered, "he's been coming home later than normal for the past week. You'll be fine."

Peter's shoulders sagged out of relief, his posture relaxing; Harry couldn't blame him, the last time Sirius and Peter had seen each other it had ended with Sirius threatening to arrest Peter the next time he saw him.

Well, at first Sirius had threatened murder until Harry had interjected his objections. He didn't like watching his uncles fight – never had.

"Oh, well, that's good. I mean, not the serial killer, that's bad, but – you know," Peter stammered out. Harry smiled slightly at his antics.

"I know," Harry said, reassuring his uncle.

They entered the kitchen together, and Harry went to the stove.

"Harry? What are you doing?" Peter asked, looking between Harry and the bag of peas on the table.

"I was going to make you some tea," Harry replied, holding up the kettle for his uncle to see.

It had become a habit Harry had fallen into – Peter was far more likely to talk about his illicit activities to Harry when he had a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits to munch on.

Peter gave Harry his best stern expression, which looked more uncertain than stern. Harry's uncles never could pull off a perfect stern expression – they could do disappointment, but never stern.

"Nonsense, Harry. Sit down and ice your eye; I'll make the tea."

Peter walked over to Harry and made flicking motions with his hands, as if he could shoo Harry away from the stove and towards the table. Harry hesitated, not sure if his uncle would still talk like normal if he had to make the tea himself, but in the end he handed Peter the kettle.

"Alright."

Harry walked back to his chair and sat back down, picking up the bag of peas as he did so. The cloth surrounding the bag was wet now, the bag sweating cold water as the peas defrosted. Harry put the bag over his eye and he could feel the cold water drip from the bag and down his face. It felt nice.

Peter ambled around the kitchen as he got everything he needed for the tea. The action was familiar and Harry allowed himself to think back to when he was younger – back to when Peter and Remus still lived with him and Sirius, of times when Peter would try to make breakfast for everyone only to end up burning everything because he would be talking with Harry, of Remus walking into the kitchen with the newspaper under his arm and sighing at the mess Peter had made, of Sirius laughing and poking fun at Peter's culinary skills, of Remus making tea and Peter preparing cereal for everyone as a way of apology.

Harry sighed away the ache in his chest.

"Who did you fight this time?" Peter asked once he had the water boiling.

"It was Hooper and his friends," Harry replied.

"Is Hooper that football player you showed up during try-outs?" Peter asked, his face scrunched up as he tried to recall why the name was familiar.

Harry hummed in the affirmative.

"But that – didn't that happen four years ago? Why is he still on you about that?" Peter looked at Harry with a puzzled expression on his face – as if he couldn't fathom someone holding a grudge for that long.

Or, at least, someone holding a grudge against Harry for that long.

"He's a fucking idiot and a bully. He and his mates really don't need a reason to pick on me."

Harry was, after all, a very easy target: he had no friends, and knew of no teachers who like him enough to have his back. Harry was at the very bottom of the school's social ladder – the proverbial Untouchable.

Untouchable unless he's getting the shit kicked out of him, that is.

Peter frowned at Harry's answer, and Harry wasn't sure if it was because Peter had almost been in his position while at school or if it was because he was currently occupying the same position in his everyday life.

Harry frowned as well as he gazed up at the ceiling. Whereas Harry was perfectly capable of surviving on his own, Peter needed to be protected by a group of powerful people in order to survive.

When he was younger, Peter had found his niche with Harry's father, James, and Sirius, and Remus. But now, with half of the group gone, Peter had moved onto far more powerful, far more dangerous people who he believed could protect him.

Believed, being the operative word – the group was doing anything but protecting Peter.

"I still can't believe that anyone would want to beat you up," Peter commented, his tone dismayed over the information.

Harry tried not to point out the fact that Peter would have probably wormed his way into Hooper's group had he had the chance while at school. In a way, he had, considering how big of a bully James and Sirius had been when they were younger.

Instead of talking, Harry shrugged in response.

They fell into silence, Peter shuffling awkwardly next to the tea-fixings while Harry sat relaxed in his chair. His left hand grew numb as he held the makeshift icepack, and he tried to place the peas in such a way that he could still ice his eye without getting his hands cold.

The kettle whistled, and Peter sprang into action as he prepared the tea. A few minutes later he sat down across from Harry, two cups of tea in his hands and the packet of biscuits under his arm. He placed one of the cups of tea in front of Harry, the other one he kept for himself. Peter opened the biscuit package and placed it in the center of the table, though not before he took one for himself.

Harry picked up his cup so that he could peer down at the tea without the pea bag moving from his eye, and he noticed that Peter had prepared it the way he liked it. Smiling slightly, Harry took a sip from his tea, burning his lip and tongue in the process, before placing the cup back down on the table. He kept his hand on the cup, though, feeling the warmth from the scalding tea heat up his freezing hand.

"So, how are you?" Harry asked, once more maneuvering the bag of peas over his eye.

"I've been well," Peter replied, his voice shaky.

Harry contained a snort of disbelief – Peter had dropped weight within the two weeks he had last seen him. He was not doing well.

"Have you stopped gambling, then?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer.

"Well – I – uh," Peter stammered out, his face turning red from embarrassment.

Harry quirked his eyebrow in an attempt to give his best judgmental expression, but it was hindered by the giant bag of peas on his face.

"I was up twenty thousand!" Peter exclaimed. He tried to play it off like it was a major achievement; however the sweat forming along his brow and his shifting eyes told Harry everything he needed to know.

"And what happened to it?" Harry asked in response, taking another sip from his tea.

"I – It was Mundungus's fault! If he hadn't upped the beat then I could have taken it all!"

And with that, Peter was off on a detailed rant about his recent games, and Harry sat back and listened. Harry had learned early on that Peter loved talking about himself – loved trying to make himself seem more important than he really was – and he also learned that Peter couldn't help but talk about everyone he knows.

And the people Peter knows nowadays were all cut from a similar cloth.

Harry had gained more intel on various Death Eaters through Peter's gambling stories than he had through newspaper stories and Sirius's old case files. Granted, not everyone Peter met was a Death Eater – Mundungus Fletcher, for instance, was just a thief with no Death Eater leanings – but a large majority of the people Peter interacted with were from the group.

So Harry sat back and listened, and every time Peter spoke of a Death Eater, Harry filed the information into his memory for later.

The first time Peter had told him of his gambling exploits had been when Harry had been fifteen. The house had been too quiet for Harry and he had welcomed his uncle's stories despite their illicit subject matter. In the end, Peter's stories had only been a ploy to kill time until Sirius came home from work, when he had asked Sirius for the money he needed to pay off the loaners he was indebted to; needless to say, the resulting argument had been the final knife in their dying friendship.

And even though Sirius had forbid Harry from speaking to Peter ever again, Harry had ignored the command. Through Peter's initial stories, Harry had recognized names, had realized who Peter was dealing with, and for the first time in his life, Harry understood why he was still alive – why he had survived that Halloween night when he was five years old.

So whenever Peter came by in the hopes to weasel money out of Sirius, Harry would use the time to weed information out of Peter.

"– Luckily Old Man Riddle was around; otherwise I think they would have pummeled me worse than you –"

"What!" Harry exclaimed, head snapping to look at his uncle.

He had been tuning out most of Peter's story, the lack of information making it unbearable; however that name jolted him back into a state of awareness.

"Uh, Harry, are you alright?" Peter stammered out. He was obviously alarmed by Harry's change in behavior, his watery eyes bright with worry and concern as he looked at Harry's incensed face.

The pea bag had fallen from its position over Harry's eye and into his lap, though Harry hadn't notice, too intent on looking at his uncle. His hand clasped his warm cup tightly, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.

"I'm fine," Harry said through clenched teeth. He took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down.

"Who was it that helped you out?"

Peter drew back at Harry's question, his own face falling into his own.

"Tom Riddle helped me out. You know Mr. Riddle, he's the headmaster at the school your father and I used to attend – he's a good man and a great replacement for Dumbledore," Peter explained.

His voice was shaky, as if he wasn't sure if he would be punished by revealing the information to Harry.

Harry, meanwhile, jumped to his feet, taking his cup of tea with him. He marched over to the sink and began to rinse his cup out.

"Harry?"

"I think you should go," Harry said, cutting off his uncle's worried question.

Peter looked from Harry down at his watch and gave a squeak of surprise.

"Oh goodness – look at the time! I really should be going!"

Peter sprang to his feet, his clumsy movements causing the table and chair to scrape and wobble as he stood up. Harry kept his eyes on the running water in an attempt to calm himself down. Peter quickly cleaned up his tea cup and the biscuits, placing them on the counter next to the sink before standing awkwardly next to Harry.

"I'll walk you out," Harry declared, turning off the faucet as his uncle continued to stare at him.

They walked silently to the front door; Peter a shrinking mass of concern, Harry a coiled ball of anger.

Peter opened the door, but before he left he turned back to Harry. Gingerly, he placed a hand on Harry's left cheek, close to his black eye, and stared at Harry with a paternal expression that made Harry's heart hurt.

"Take care of yourself – please," Peter pleaded, his eyes genuine.

Harry wanted to tell him to stay the hell away from Riddle. He wanted to tell his uncle – the man who used to read him bedtime stories, who used to play pretend with him, who had taught him how to play cards and how to make pancakes – to stay safe, to take care of himself.

He didn't want his uncle anywhere near Riddle.

But Harry had learned long ago that he needed Peter to continue his dirty habit, to continue associating with shady people so Harry could gain information from him.

And if Peter was hanging out with Riddle, then all the better for Harry's mission.

"I will," Harry reassured, leaning away from the touch. "And you – you be careful."

Peter stared at his surrogate nephew with a terrible cocky smile.

"It's not your job to worry about me, Harry," he said, "I'm the adult in this relationship, not you, and it's the adult's job to worry about the kids. So let me worry about you and you continue to act like a kid."

Peter left after that, walking out of Number 12 with hunched shoulders and a sad expression on his face. Harry had to restrain himself as he closed the door. He wanted to call out to Peter, to yell that he was wrong. Harry wasn't a child, and Peter was far from an adult. But Harry kept his objections to himself.

Silence followed the slamming of the door, and Harry allowed it to permeate the air for only a moment before he lashed out, banging both of his fists against the door.

Riddle.

A dark closet, a pleading mother, a deafening bang, a beam of light from a newly made hole followed by the opening of the closet door, a man – half in shadow and half in light – pointing a gun at his face, blood covered shoes, shouts from downstairs –

_Tell anyone about this and you'll end up like your bastard of a father and whore of a mother._

No officer, I didn't see who did it. No, I was in the closet. Is my mother going to be okay? Where's my father?

Harry hadn't realized he had collapsed onto the ground until he felt a sharp pain coming from his knees and hands. He was gasping jaggedly, and he tried to get his breathing under control before he started to hyperventilate.

Harry thought back on Peter's story, trying to find a purpose to direct his emotions towards, rather than let them control him as they were currently doing. Peter had mentioned Borgin and Burkes, a pawn shop near Kings Cross Station that also dealt with illegal gambling transactions. Borgin, the owner of the shop, loaned money to and collected money from idiotic gamblers like Peter in order to make a profit from both winnings and losses.

Peter had been there when Riddle had shown up, which meant that Riddle should be on the books at Borgin and Burkes.

Heart no longer trying to beat its way out of his chest, Harry stood up onto shaky feet. He had to visit the shop, but first he needed a plan.

He went to the kitchen in order to clean up the evidence that Peter had visited. As he cleaned, Harry thought of a plan. He would go to Borgin and Burkes tomorrow with the intent on trying to pawn a family heirloom, no doubt using an old Black object considering how much disdain Sirius had over his family inheritance. While the worker was examining the object, Harry would try to find information on Riddle.

The rest would be left to improvisation considering how any well thought-out plan Harry ever had ended up falling apart almost immediately. His vaguest plans tended to go much more smoothly than his intricately thought out ones.

Looking around the kitchen one final time to make sure all the evidence of Peter's tea-time meeting were cleaned up, Harry left to his room, intent on writing down all the important information he gleamed from Peter's visit for his binder of evidence he kept in his room.

The binder was three-ringed, and had gone through several upgrades since the beginning of Harry's investigation. At first it had started off as a small half-inch binder, but now after almost two solid years of research, Harry had upgraded to a three-inch binder filled with information regarding suspected Death Eaters and Voldemort himself.

Even now the binder was in need of another upgrade, the rings becoming harder to open as Harry added more papers to the already over-flowing stack.

He retrieved the binder from the loose floorboard underneath his bed; he was probably being more paranoid than he should be considering how no one knew he had been collecting information on Death Eaters, but Harry felt that he couldn't be too careful.

Constant vigilance and all that.

He placed the binder on his bed and reached for his backpack before taking a seat on the bed as well. He pulled out a notebook and a pen from the bag, pausing when his eyes moved over a white business card. Placing the pen and notebook to the side, Harry picked up the card, reading the name and contact information quickly.

He had almost forgotten about Agents Barton and Coulson from earlier that day.

He stared at the card, his mind racing in thought. Harry was given a unique opportunity – two agents from an intelligence agency were investigating Death Eaters. Their mission was to find out as much as they could about Voldemort and his Death Eaters, or at least that's what Harry had gathered from his conversation with Barton.

And Harry had liked Barton – the guy seemed easy-going and good at his job, despite his apparent newness to it.

Barton had given Harry the card because he knew that Harry knew more than what he let on, which was true. Harry could call and tell them about everything – tell them that they could have his binder, that they could finish Harry's work for him.

But he frowned at the idea of letting anyone get a hand on his research. He had started this crusade against Voldemort and his Death Eaters and by God he was going to finish it.

But maybe he could call them and give them a friendly tip that they should turn their attentions away from Quirrell and onto Tom Riddle.

After all, Riddle was Voldemort.

Riddle had killed his parents – would have killed him had the neighbors not shown up before Voldemort could finish the job.

And maybe if Barton and his partner were investigating Riddle then they could keep an eye on his Uncle Peter while they were at it; make sure he didn't end up in a ditch somewhere after a bad game of poker or something.

With his mind made up, Harry leapt from his bed and made his way down to the living room where the home phone was kept. He would call the Agents, tell them to keep an eye on Riddle, and never speak to them again. If they ended up finding out that Riddle was Voldemort and could kill him, then that would be great; if they couldn't, even better.

Maybe then Harry could finish his job without outside interference.

Harry had the phone in hand, the silent living room creating the perfect space for a secret conversation, and began to dial the number on the card.

That is, until Harry heard the front door open.

Ending the call before he even made it, Harry placed the phone back down on its stand and slipped the card under the phone stand.

Out of sight.

Harry watched the entryway as his godfather walked past it. Sirius Black looked haggard: his suit was wrinkled, his tie was undone, he looked like he needed a shower, and he had a packet of cigarettes in his hands. He had almost walked completely past Harry without even noticing he was there, except right at the last minute Sirius did a double take, spotting Harry standing awkwardly in the living room.

Sirius turned around and entered the room with Harry, his eyes zeroed in on Harry's face.

"That's quite a shiner you've got there," were the first words out of Sirius's mouth. Harry felt his lips twitch, though it wasn't out of amusement.

Sirius took hold of Harry's chin and angled it so he could get a better look at Harry's face.

"You know, even James and I, with all the shit we pulled back in school, never were able to get suspended. Congrats, you accomplished something even your old man couldn't do."

Sirius clapped Harry on the shoulder, right on a bruise. Harry winced, though it wasn't all from the pain.

Harry bit his tongue; he wanted to say that his father was not an old man – would never be able to be an old man – because he died at twenty-five years old.

"I mean, even after we snuck into the girl's locker room we hadn't been suspended – had detention for months, but never suspension," Sirius continued with a laugh, his eyes glazed from a memory.

"Well, you did always say that Dumbledore favored you and dad," Harry said, shrugging his shoulders in such a way that Sirius's hand fell from it.

"That he did," Sirius agreed, still far away in his memories.

The two stood in silence. Harry waited for Sirius to return to reality, and he watched with drooping shoulders as his godfather took a cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips before taking out a lighter and lighting it up.

Harry frowned – Remus had always hated it when Sirius smoked in the house – and he had to refrain from walking away from his godfather to open a window.

Sirius took a drag from the smoke and blew it out, down towards his feet and away from Harry's face.

"I'm sorry I didn't pick you up from school," he began to say.

"Sirius, it's fine," Harry cut in, pushing away the residual hurt that he had been feeling from earlier in the day.

"No, it's not. I should have picked you up."

"You were on a case, it's fine."

"You were probably bored out of your mind."

"Honestly, it wasn't any different than being in class all day."

"If James or I were in your position we'd have just left."

"Remus wouldn't have approved."

Nor would mom.

"No, he wouldn't have," Sirius agreed, taking another drag of his cigarette.

Sirius stared at Harry some more before rubbing his hand through Harry's hair, messing it up further than it already was. Out of habit, Harry went straight to fix the damage his godfather had caused, causing the man to smile.

"Well, you get a week off from school – think of it as a mini vacation. Enjoy it while you can because once you're reinstated, school's going to be hell."

And with that, Sirius walked out of the living room, leaving behind a cloud of smoke. Harry frowned as he watched him leave; there was no disciplinary action from Sirius – no grounding, no extra chores, no yelling or chastising.

How was Harry supposed to act like a kid like Peter expected him to be if the only adult he still actually liked didn't treat him like one?

Harry grabbed Coulson's business card from underneath the phone and left to go to his room. He already knew how the rest of the night would play out.

Sirius would retire to his office without dinner in order to look over the case file for any clues he had missed during the day; except he would be doing it with a bottle of whiskey and a mind filled with memories. Come midnight, Harry would check on him only to find him asleep at his desk, a half-empty glass of whiskey within his reach and an even emptier bottle of whiskey closer still.

Harry would then down the rest of the whiskey in the glass, pick up the file his godfather was looking through, and look at it himself. This way he could gather more information on suspected Death Eaters for his own research while also staying informed on any new dangerous criminals within the city.

Once done with the file, Harry would turn off the desk light, turn on the lamp in the far corner of the office, and turn off the room light so Sirius could sleep in a semi-dark room rather than a completely bright one.

Then Harry would brush his teeth, jot down all the information he learned to put in his binder, and go to bed.

Harry entered his room and launched himself onto the bed, the mattress bouncing with his body upon impact. He would wait and think until his godfather passed out in his office. In the meantime, Harry looked at the business card in his hand, his mind drifting off in thought.

Coming to a decision, Harry crumpled Coulson's business card in his hand and tossed it into his trashcan.

He swore that he was going to be the one to bring Riddle to justice along with the rest of the Death Eaters – there was no way he was going to call in a couple of unknown Americans for help when he didn't need it.

He didn't need their help, and he certainly didn't want their help.

He was fine on his own.

Always had been. Always would be.

* * *

Author's Note:

Thank you everyone who have followed/favorited/reviewed this story; the initial response has been great and I am happy the story has thus far been well received. Hope everyone has a great Wednesday!


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